


Like Flint and Steel

by CinnamonLily



Series: Just Like Magic [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha Peter Hale, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Disassociation, Future Fic, Good Peter Hale, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Magic Stiles, Pack Feels, Rescue Mission, Sex Trafficking, Sorcerer Stiles, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, abducted Derek, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 13:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11784126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnamonLily/pseuds/CinnamonLily
Summary: Six years ago, Peter Hale was still recovering from all the madness he went (and put everyone) through. When Stiles made a pass at him, he drove the then nineteen-year-old away in a moment of cowardice. Stiles left for college, but his life took a different turn along the way, and now he's someone completely different than the young spark that left town and never really returned for long.Two packs and two alphas under the same roof shouldn't work, but somehow it all does. The Hale packs are strong together, at least until Derek goes missing. Eventually, Lydia calls the only person she knows can help the packs get their second alpha back, because heaven knows Peter isn't going to make that call.Stiles at twenty-five is a whole different person. But Peter isn't the same man he was then anymore, either.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT: Heed the warnings in the end note, people. Do NOT complain about the content if you don't take a look at the tags and the end note.
> 
> Also, endless thanks to red_crate for betaing this!

 

* * *

 

 

_Derek wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. Days? Weeks? It didn’t matter. He’d gone numb a long time ago. They were starting to get tired of him, he could tell._

_He didn’t react to the methods of torture they tried to inflict, didn’t flinch at the sound of electricity crackling or the snap of a whip. He couldn’t open his eyes, not that he wanted to. He was pretty sure his eyes were glued shut with the come and the blood on his face. The latter was his, the former… well._

_The worst thing wasn’t what they were still doing to him. He wasn’t sure, but he assumed that the sex swing they’d rigged him up in had something poisonous woven through the parts touching his skin. He hadn’t healed at all, but at least the numbness had taken out the way he could feel the ropes and whatever else he lay on embedding into his flesh._

_If he concentrated really hard, he could feel something going on somewhere below his waist. He guessed the one guy was back. A big black man with hands that could span a basketball. He liked to use them in fisting. Punching, to be exact. It had stopped hurting at some point, too._

_The weird bands they’d tied around his limbs and neck prevented healing. He was sure his hole was gaping now, he wondered why the man wasn’t getting tired of this yet. Surely it did nothing to him anymore? But then who the fuck knew with hunters._

_Derek sank back into the numbness, the way his body still tried to hold on. The only thing he still registered, had power to hate, was the fact that he couldn’t get rid of the smell of several men’s come on his face. He would’ve gladly inhaled any of the other bodily fluids there had been and still were in the air, on his skin, embedded into his soul, he was sure._

_He wished his body would just. Give. Up._

  
~*~

 

Peter paced from the open kitchen to the family room and back. He didn’t know how it was possible for his nephew to go missing, but somehow, Derek had. It had been over three weeks now, and they hadn’t found anything new in the last two of those weeks.

The worst thing was, he knew Derek was still alive somewhere. Barely, but still there. Whenever he concentrated, he could feel each member of the new Hale pack, including the second alpha, Derek. It wasn’t the most conventional pack structure in the least, but the bonds didn’t seem to care about that.

Peter was the alpha in charge, with only Cora—who was in Brazil on a student exchange—and Danny clearly on his side of the pack. Lydia teetered somewhere between the two sides, while Erica, Isaac, Boyd, Scott, and Allison were all in Derek’s pack. He was their alpha, but also responded to Peter as the elder alpha.

It shouldn’t have worked, but somehow it all did. Not even Deaton could explain it, not that he would’ve, really, Peter suspected. Deaton had been Talia’s emissary, and while he worked for the new Hale pack in some capacity, he wasn’t their emissary in the purest sense.

It wouldn’t have been funny if the rest of the pack had known it was basically because Deaton’s resources and knowledge had its limits. Some years back, on one fateful night of scotch between adults—Peter, Derek, and Deaton—the druid had confessed that he was well versed in the supernatural, could act as the liaison between the Hale pack and any other supernaturals that came in peace. He just didn’t care about the human side of things.

What the man meant was that they were mostly on their own in hunter-related incidences or other things concerning humans, in the know or not. On those cases, Deaton showed up after, patching up those who needed it, and then returned to his dogs and cats at the clinic.

Peter continued pacing in the new Hale house they’d rebuilt a few years ago. It was closer to the lake, a bit away from where the husk of the old house had been. They’d had that torn down before the new build and planted new trees in the old spot instead.

“They’ve all gone out,” Lydia said as she stepped into the same room with him.

She was the only one in the pack who wasn’t afraid of his temper since Derek’s disappearance. She’d been on the receiving end of the evil he’d done years ago. Now, she knew there were few things he could do to her in anger that would hurt more. He’d forever feel guilty for that.

Lydia walked directly into his path and looked at him defiantly. “It’s been three weeks and two days. I know that you can still feel him alive. Nobody else can, because he’s shut them out, but he can’t do that to his alpha.”

Peter scoffed and ran his fingers through his hair, turning away from her.

“You would’ve given up if he was dead. They don’t get it, haven’t thought of it yet, for some reason. So here’s the thing, Peter,” she said quietly and walked around him again so he couldn’t avoid her sharp, yet oddly kind gaze. “Tonight, at one, you go to where the trail ends. There will be help there. I promise.”

Peter jerked back in shock. “You did _not_ call him.”

“Oh, but I did. Because you should’ve, at least a week ago. He’s the one who can find Derek when nobody else can.” Her tone was final. True.

It didn’t mean Peter had to like it, though. “No. I won’t…,” he mumbled, getting tangled in his own words when the old emotions rushed over him.

“You fucked up, Peter Hale. Take some responsibility. This is Derek’s life we’re talking about.” She turned on her heel and marched out of the family room, probably going to the preserve to join the others.

Peter growled in frustration and barely stopped his hand when his fist was about to connect the wall closest to him. He wouldn’t maim the house.

Lydia was right. He needed to face his fucked up past and… go meet the man whose heart he’d broken six years ago.

  
~*~

 

Peter arrived at the parking lot of the Target fifteen minutes to one. It was eerie how the large space felt even emptier than it had before. They’d scoured the lot, the surroundings, even the fucking store—poor employees—but this was where Derek’s trail had gone cold.

Six years ago, Stiles had been nineteen. He’d had a bit of a spark, a sarcastic, witty mind, and he’d wanted Peter.

Six years ago, Peter had been thirty-six. He’d been… well, on his way to mentally stable after years in a sort-of-coma and the shit he’d done while trying to get his life and his mind back. And he’d wanted the witty boy like he’d wanted air.

But Stiles had had promise. More than anyone else in the pack. Well, except Lydia and Danny, maybe, the three of them were on the same level in Peter’s book. Peter could’ve been selfish and taken what he wanted. Given in and given them _both_ what they wanted so much. But he couldn’t.

There were two reasons. First, ever since sixteen, Stiles had had a huge crush on Derek, and for a few months somewhere between horrible things happening in town they’d given it a go. It hadn’t worked out, but Stiles and Derek had managed to stay friends. Peter had been horrified to realize he had honest to deity feelings for the boy his nephew had dated briefly. Some things you kept in the family, others….

Secondly, well, the brightness in Stiles was something to nurture, not to extinguish. He had been accepted into two of the top three colleges on his list, and Peter wouldn’t stand in the way of that if it killed him. Back then, Peter hadn’t been sure of his own recovery. He hadn’t been sure if the man he was right then would’ve been good for Stiles. In fact, he’d been almost positive he would’ve fucked them both up in some way or another, if he’d given in right then.

One night, a month before Stiles was to leave to his chosen college, the young man had decided to do something to the simmering tension between them. They’d been alone in Derek’s loft, researching this or that, Peter couldn’t even remember anymore. It wasn’t an active threat, just something someone had mentioned smelling on patrol and they were trying to figure out if it was something worrying or not.

The rest of the pack was doing their own thing that night. Some were on patrol, others were gathering loose ends together to make sure they were ready to move wherever they were heading for college.

They’d been sitting on the couch on opposite ends, both with very heavy, very old book on their laps. Suddenly something had zinged Peter’s fingers, like static electricity. He’d looked at the book, searching for the answer, because he’d just been turning the page and in his experience, books didn’t generate that sort of electricity.

Then another zap had hit him in the neck, and he’d jolted, turning his head to look at Stiles who was studiously trying to hide his smirk.

“What are you doing?” Peter had demanded.

“Oh, just playing,” Stiles answered, grinning at him and raised a brow at him. “You know, time you saw the sparks between us and all that.”

There had been sparks, the metaphorical ones, for months and months now. Every accidental touch had ramped it all up to a point where some nights he’d gone to his room and jerked off after sending Stiles home.

Derek looked at them both with a mixture of amusement and disgust. Peter didn’t have to be told how they smelled around each other.

“Stiles…,” he murmured, looking away from the boy, trying his best to keep his body language relaxed.

“At least you’re not trying to deny it,” Stiles attempted a light tone, but failed miserably.

Peter snorted. “No, what would be the point in that?”

“So?”

“I can’t. _We_ can’t. Not when you’re going away, Stiles.”

Stiles had nodded quietly. “You’re afraid.”

He wanted to deny that, but he couldn’t. Stiles was right, like he so often would be.

“If you think there’s a chance of me going to college and forgetting all about you, you’re wrong. You know that, right?” Stiles turned toward him and Peter could feel how much he wanted to take Peter’s hand.

“Stiles, please don’t push this. Not right now, okay?”

“You’re not saying no forever, then? Just for now?” The hope in Stiles’s tone was something Peter hated with vigor.

For a few moments he sat quietly, trying to figure out how to make the boy just go away and grab life by the balls instead of… well….

“No, Stiles. I want you to go to college and forget all about me. Hell, forget all about Beacon Hills and all this fucked up supernatural shit. You have a chance to be a human, Stiles. Don’t let go of that.” He turned his head and looked at the boy. “Go away, and do not come back, Stiles.”

  
~*~

 

Standing on the Target parking lot, he could still feel the burn inside his chest. His own shame and the anger from his wolf. How the battered, burned, barely healed creature inside him paced and growled at him, reacting to the loss he was impacting upon all three of them.

Stiles had left for college two weeks early and only came back to spend a couple of days with his dad on the holidays. Peter hadn’t seen him again, not after that night. There had been lovers, people who helped him scratch the itch when things became unbearable. His wolf got mad at him after each new person. Nobody twice, not more often than every few months. Neither Peter nor the wolf could take more than that.

Idly, he leaned against his SUV and waited. He barely registered the approaching motorcycle, but when it turned smoothly into the lot and parked by the edge on the other side of Peter’s car, he knew.

It was a nice touch, the gleaming black thing between Stiles’s long legs. He’d heard, of course, about the changes in Stiles’s life. About how he ended up dropping out of college and traveled the States and then the world to learn from emissaries, druids, witches. Whomever would teach him something new, he’d travel to them.

But somehow, Peter still hadn’t expected… this.

His wolf was curious. Carefully hopeful in the same way Stiles had been six years ago. But something confused Peter’s inner beast, and it only took Stiles getting off his bike to know what it was; there was no scent.

Frowning, Peter sniffed the air when Stiles took off the helmet, and even then, his basic essence was oddly muted.

Stiles turned around and gave Peter a wry smirk.

“It’s the leathers,” he explained, with a jerk of his head upwards, as if to mimic the way wolves scented the air with their noses higher than usual. “Never got to Hogwarts, but figured out how to make my own invisibility cloak, eh?”

Peter couldn’t speak. He watched as Stiles shrugged off the long leather jacket and ran his fingers through his hair. It was longer on the top and shorn to the skull at the sides. There were tattoos on his neck now. The fingerless gloves hid his hands, but somehow Peter knew they would be covered in ink, too. He was wearing a battered maroon hoodie, and somehow that made Peter’s heart clench in his chest.

“So, Lydia explained things to me already, but could you tell me what you’ve done here?” Stiles swaggered closer to him and looked at him. Looked _down_ at him, because somehow he had grown more than a couple of inches while being gone, and not all of it could be the heavy motorcycle boots.

Peter cleared his throat. “Uh, three weeks, two days ago. He went to get something from here late one evening. Nobody else was home, at the house—she told you we rebuilt the house, right?” Peter asked, still feeling a bit off-kilter.

Stiles tilted his head and nodded. “My Dad told me when you started the build, yeah. Lydia said everyone uses it as a home base whenever the pack is in town?”

“Most of them work nearby, so they live there full time, now. Easy commute.” Peter shrugged, trying to ignore the way the wolf was sniffing around now that Stiles let them have more of his scent.

“So where was his car?” Stiles asked, looking around the lot.

“Right here.” Peter turned and walked a few steps, gesturing to the edge of the lot closest to the doors. “It was late, so we think he just went to pick up something quickly.”

“Lydia says security cameras had been tampered with?” Stiles scanned the area, uncannily reminding Peter of how the Sheriff took in crime scenes.

“Old fashioned spray can action.”

Stiles chuckled. “Crude but effective.”

“The only sign of the struggle was a carton of Ben&Jerry’s melting by the car. The doors were still locked.”

“What flavor?” Stiles asked casually.

“W-what?” He certainly hadn’t expected _that_ question.

“What flavor?” Stiles repeated himself, seemingly serious.

“New York Super Fudge Chunk?”

“Okay, that’s his favorite.” Stiles nodded. “I was just wondering if he was picking it up because someone was coming over.”

It was a good call, thinking outside the box in the way Stiles always had. Something nobody in the pack had thought of.

“Chris has nothing,” Peter said then, as he watched Stiles walk around where the car had been. “He’s contacted everyone he knows, nobody knows a thing.”

“Huh….” Stiles walked to the exact spot where the ice cream had been. Then he pushed up the sleeves of the hoodie and took off the gloves. As Peter had thought, there were tattoos on his hands and forearms, too.

Stiles stood in place and stared at the spot right next to his feet. Then he did some sort of a hand movement, and something thin and blue, almost like glowy mist, formed between his hands. It lowered to the ground and seemed to scan the immediate area. Then it rounded Stiles and slid past his motorcycle, then under Peter’s car and through to the other side. It stopped to the edge of the parking lot entrance some thirty-five yards from them.

“Well, he definitely didn’t vanish into thin air,” Stiles said brightly, heading to where the mist had dissipated.

“What is that?” Peter asked, falling into step with him.

“Tracking supernatural signatures. I just sort of made it hook into Derek’s. If they moved him fast, it won’t be able to follow, but it can pick up the track every time they slowed down. So I’ll know where they turned and so on.”

“Isn’t that potentially really, really slow?” Peter frowned.

Stiles stopped and whirled around to look at him. “If I was called within the first week or so, I could actually have tracked his signature’s echo, not just the very basic remnants.” He snorted. “Hell, I could’ve done so many things.”

The “so this is on you, Peter,” was left unsaid, but he could still feel it loud and clear.

Stiles did another one of those things with his hands and the mist reappeared, this time turning left. They watched as it glimmered in the night, then disappeared where the vehicle must’ve picked up speed.

“Alrighty, then,” Stiles said and turned to Peter again. “Go home. This will take a while. I’ll contact you if I lose the track completely or need your help. One way or another. If you don’t hear from me, it’s all going okay. And if something happens to me, Scotty will know.”

Peter opened his mouth to ask how exactly would Scott know, but Stiles was already marching back to his bike and putting his gloves and coat back on. He was on the bike with the helmet on and slowly driving away before Peter made it back to his car.

As Stiles passed him by, Peter could see faint runes painted in the helmet’s surface.

He had never felt quite so dismissed in his life.

The old Peter would’ve gotten into the SUV and driven after Stiles, following him wherever he went, no matter what he said.

But new Peter, the person, the man, the alpha he was now, got into his car and sighed. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel and wondered if he would have decided differently six years ago, had he known about this new Stiles. If he’d seen the wide shoulders and powerful thighs, the hairstyle that screamed badassery, or the tattoos that made Peter want to trace them with his tongue. The power around Stiles now was palpable, anyone who knew how to tune into the supernatural would feel it.

Stiles wasn’t a spark now. He was a mage, or something like that. There were definitions for different kinds of magic, and Peter wouldn’t even try to guess where Stiles fell on that scale.

Whatever Stiles had turned into, for Peter it seemed like wolfnip. He was sex on legs, and the power… well, for good or for bad, Peter had always been drawn to power.

“Invisibility cloak,” he said faintly, then started to laugh and repeatedly banged his head none-too-gently against the steering wheel, until he managed to rein the hysteria in. Then he started the car and began the drive back to the Hale house.

Stiles had been right. There had been a third reason for the rejection; Peter had been afraid. He could only hope to be fearless this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is implied rape and torture in the beginning part of this fic. This happens to Derek and an original female werewolf character. There is implied forced anal fisting. Derek disassociates in the situation.
> 
> There might be more of this !verse in my head. If you'd like to read it, leave kudos and comments.
> 
> Attention makes us write more and/or possibly faster. JSYK.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles felt his tattoos tingle as he sped away from parking lot. His magic was reacting in ways he couldn’t quite explain, and he needed to call someone, asap.

How Peter hadn’t seen the shaking of his hands as he conjured the tracking mist, he didn’t know. Maybe they were both different now? Or maybe Peter was just as shaken by meeting him again?

Stiles drove until the next large intersection and called the mist again, thinking about Derek as he did, making sure it was tracking the right person’s supernatural signature. The mist continued forward, and Stiles started to follow on the more sedate pace.

The school zone meant lower speed by law, which meant that he could follow the mist easily for a few blocks until it disappeared once more. It seemed that whoever took Derek was following the speed limits even during night time. That was… worrying. They hadn’t wanted to get caught enough to obey the law while driving.

He pushed Peter out of his mind and concentrated on conjuring the mist every now and then, once having to track back. His tracking spell was rare enough that most people didn’t even know it was a possibility. That was on purpose. Because the kind of magic that allowed tracking of a specific supernatural being could be dangerous in the wrong hands.

Luckily, Stiles had found people who taught him things that were barely legal even in the supernatural world. He knew more than any sorcerers twice his age. His spark had been a beginning. When he’d recognized one of his professors as a werewolf and gotten to know her pack better, he’d also met their emissary. After that, he'd moved from emissary to emissary, to anyone recommended and able to teach him more. He left traditional learning behind for his own unique brand of education. Now he was probably one of the most powerful emissaries and magic users in the United States.

Not that he had a pack. He was an emissary who went to packs who needed help. Sometimes it was a supernatural private investigator, sometimes being the middleman in territory disputes. Hell, last year he’d babysat an orphan dragon for a few weeks while the druid who found him tracked down someone who might want to take a responsibility of a dragon in the first place.

Stiles drove, stopped, conjured the mist, drove, stopped, conjured the mist, and so on, for over two hours. The distance he covered wasn’t very long. He was barely ou of Beacon Hills when he felt it. He could feel something close by, guarded by a shitload of runes and questionable magic he’d only ever seen hunters use.

Shit. He didn’t have to summon the mist to know he was close now. He just hoped this wouldn’t be what he thought it might.

The area was commercial slash industrial, with a garden center, a huge DIY store, some factories and whatnot. The runes on his skin tingled as he parked the bike in a dark alley behind what looked like a closed and empty grocery store.

He left his helmet with the bike and made sure he had everything he needed with him. In this case, that was a couple of flashbangs, an extendable baton, and some mountain ash, just in case. Most of what he needed was embedded on his skin in various ways, inks, and images, even some scarification.

It took him five minutes to find the right building. It was warded to all hell, runes glowing brightly when Stiles hissed out an incantation. It would be impossible to get in unless invited. There was no need for a doorman here, despite the at least twenty people inside.

Sighing, Stiles made sure he was in the shadows, closed his eyes and then reached out with his feelings, trying to find Derek amidst the people inside.

Most of the auras he could feel were human. There were three others, though. One felt female, wolfy. Another one was probably the magic user responsible for the wards. They didn’t feel hundred percent human, but that was just the magic. The last one was definitely male and wolf, though his aura was very faint.

Stiles opened his eyes, knowing they would light up with the bright teal color of his magic. He could tell it was Derek. He also knew he might be too late.

Suddenly a loud laughter sounded from somewhere close to the outer wall of the converted warehouse. Stiles stepped past the closest doorway, so that if someone opened the door it would hide Stiles until they closed it again.

“…they should ease up with the wolfsbane. It’s boring when they don’t heal between sessions,” a deep voice was saying to someone.

“You gave it good though, I could tell. Hell, I was hard as a rock most of the time,” the other man replied.

“Filthy animals, punching is the only thing they’re good for.”

“I kind of wanna fuck it now, but its hole is so fucking loose it’ll take a miracle to even feel anything, ya know?”

The door opened, and the two men stepped outside, seemingly for a smoke.

They closed the door without looking, and turned their backs on Stiles, who was fuming. His magic crackled under his skin, and in that moment, he wondered if he should call for backup, because this was going to be so fucking messy.

He whipped out the baton, the sound of it extending making the men turn as fast as they could. It was too late, though. Stiles was already in motion, making a sharp jab with the thing, crushing the smaller man’s windpipe with one swift strike.

He fell to the ground and gurgled, surprisingly silent, exactly what Stiles was going for in addition to maximum pain.

The big black dude was reaching for something on his belt, and risked looking down for one second. It was all Stiles needed to thwack him with the baton. The strike hit the man in the temple, the extra magical power caving his skull in and dropping him like a fly.

The runes shimmered, and Stiles stopped, concentrated, and lifted a hand to the closest one. He murmured a few words, then watched as the runes’ magic combined with his own without alerting their original owner inside. With a few other words, he made sure nobody would escape before he had finished this for good.

Stiles opened the door and snuck in. It was dark in the front, with some cars parked to the side with garage doors, and walled space on the other. That’s where the sounds were coming from. The cars were the typical black SUVs that hunters seemed to prefer. Stiles muttered a few words toward the vehicles, feeling odd, almost distant satisfaction when he sensed the batteries emptying. It was petty, but the things these hunters were doing….

He felt bile rise in his throat and swallowed hard. No thinking. He couldn’t afford that right then. He dug into his memory for the best possible spells to use here, and came up with very little. With how his skin was crawling, his tattoos lighting up under his clothes, he knew that it would have to be something subtle or the sheer power inside him would annihilate every hunter in the room.

Not that he cared, really. He just didn’t want to be explaining this shit to Agent McCall anytime soon. Again. There might have been a couple times over the past few years where he'd had to come up with a cover story for the Feds.

In the end, he snuck to the wall of the enclosed part and looked for an alternative way inside. It wasn’t like he could go through the door, after all. Well, not at first. When he spotted a set of sort of narrow windows near the top of the wall, he pulled out a flashbang, then reached out with his senses again.

He walked to the spot where he could feel the female wolf was and concentrated on her aura.

The feeling Stiles got was green. Sort of a light forest green which wasn’t unusual for a werewolf. It had started to turn rusty brownish orange on the edges, though, and that made Stiles frown. She was terrified, in so much pain and humiliated beyond belief. But she was still alive and her will was still there.

Stiles hated having to invade her mind, her body had been invaded enough already, but for safety he needed to.

 _“Hey Miss Wolf. I don’t know you, but can you concentrate on me for a moment? I’m outside the wall, coming to help._ It took a lot to force the connection, making Stiles more vulnerable than he would’ve liked while he concentrated.

For a moment, there was stunned silence, then a hesitant _“What the fuck?”_

_“I’m a sorcerer. It’s all magic, Wolfy. I’m here to get you and Derek out.”_

_“You’re a friend of Derek’s?”_ her mind jumped at the connection and opened right up so Stiles didn’t have to use as much of his energy to get through.

 _“Yep. He’s almost gone, I know. It’s fine, he’ll get better.”_ Stiles hoped he wasn’t lying to her. For so many reasons. _“But I have to do something very non-subtle. If you’re not tied up by your hands, place them on your ears and close your eyes on three. It’ll still hurt, I’m sorry.”_

_“Okay. Good luck.”_

_“Oh sweetheart, I don’t need luck.”_ Stiles chuckled under his breath even though she couldn’t hear it through the wall. Then he sent her a thought. _“Three.”_

He pulled the pin and tossed the flashbang through the glassless window and barely registered it going off. Then he dug out his cell and tapped a few pre-programmed shortcuts to type “Warehouse. 5 miles outside BH, northwest. Follow the magic. Clean up. Got the rest of the western ring.” These days he didn’t hesitate to select Agent McCall’s number and press send. They had an understanding.

He put the phone away in the exact moment the door to the room opened, and the first hunter staggered out. It was a female dressed in a tacky corset and heels high enough to make her close to his height.

He grabbed her hair and pulled her out of the way. At first she had no clue what was happening, but when she realized she was being manhandled through her disorientation, she shrieked.

“Now, now. Shut up, you bitch,” Stiles said sweetly, calmly. “Where’s the last of your little playrooms?”

Her eyes widened and she prepared to yell just as Stiles covered her mouth with his hand.

“Oh no, don’t yell. They will all get what they deserve. I need a location. You have ten seconds to think. I could just kill you and find out for myself,” he said, making it sound like a deal of sorts.

She nodded rapidly, her eyes full of terror that made the sadistic side of Stiles very, very happy. He removed his hand.

“I-in Sheridan, in W-wyoming,” she said, eyes filled with temporary relief.

“Thank you. If there’s hell, I’m sure that’s where you’re going.” Stiles nodded at her politely, her confusion evident in her eyes, and then he said a few words in an ancient language to close her airway. For good.

She collapsed on the floor and he pushed up his sleeves as he walked through the door and into what he knew these hunters called their playrooms. It was a chain of sex trafficking supernaturals that had somehow turned into these private sex dungeons. People were missing. A lot of people.

By then, the remaining hunters were mostly waiting for him inside. Some were disoriented still, a couple cowering against the walls or behind some furniture. The bravest, most stupid ones were holding weapons in their still unstable hands.

“You knew I’d come for you, didn’t you?” he asked, grinning as magic gathered inside him. They hadn’t known it would be now, or here, but they knew someone had been annihilating their sick dungeons one by one.

Nobody answered, but the man closest to him pulled the trigger of his pistol. Stiles’ magic acted as a shield, making the bullet bounce off half an inch from his forehead.

“Now that wasn’t nice at all.” Stiles looked at the man who was suddenly much less brave.

A ball of energy shot from Stiles’s hand and hit the man square in the chest, dropping him right there as his heart burst from the energy spike.

A whimper, this one from the female wolf, made Stiles’s concentration snap into what was more important than posturing and having fun with revenge.

He spoke an incantation, and all the hunters holding weapons screamed as the guns went red hot in their hands. Then he rapidly sent more energy spikes, hitting them in the chest, in the head, and one—because he hadn’t pulled his pants up—in the balls. They were all dead or dying as they hit the floor, and Stiles moved around some dungeon equipment to the—“Hey, what’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked the wolf as he knelt by her, already digging out his cell again.

“S-Sonya,” she whimpered, then pointed her manacled hand toward the other side of the room. “Derek, get Derek.”

“Okay, help is on the way,” he promised her as he got up.

Where she was naked and tied with heavy werewolf proof manacles in a long chain—like a dog, Stiles thought—Derek… Derek was in a swing. Stiles wiped his mind clean of what he was seeing and concentrated on helping his friend.

“Hey Der,” he said, loud enough to hopefully penetrate the haze protecting his mind. Then he poked at his thoughts like he had hers. _“Derek, you need to wake up.”_ No reaction.

He called Deaton, the closest druid and emissary to the warehouse, as he started to rip off the thin ropes bound to Derek’s limbs.

“Stiles?” Deaton sounded surprised.

“Found Derek and a female wolf called Sonya. They need help, a lot of it. Medical, wolfy help, Alan. It’s really, really bad.” He gave the druid the location and called Peter next.

“Did you find him?” The alpha’s voice was tinged with hope and fear for his nephew.

Stiles swallowed away the feelings rising in his chest. “Yeah, it’s really, really bad. He’s alive, but barely. Call Braeden, Peter. She has experience of… this sort of thing. Alan is on his way to collect Derek and a female wolf. Stay put. We’ll come to you.” Then he ended the call, knowing Peter hated him right then.

He put the phone away and used the pulley system to lower the swing to the floor. He used his pocket knife to cut through the ropes and restraints, then rolled Derek over.

The ropes were embedded into his skin, some to the point where they’d met bone and couldn’t go through, no matter what they were made of. Stiles grimaced at the sight.

“Okay, Derek. This will hurt, but I have no choice. I’m so, so sorry, buddy.” He tried to distance himself of what he was about to do, but realized his cheeks were getting wet by his own tears as he grabbed two corners of the netted rope and pulled as fast as he could.

Strings of Derek’s skin and flesh stuck to the ropes, leaving gashes of red behind. The anguished sound echoing in the room came as a shock, especially when Stiles recognized his own voice. Derek hadn’t made a sound or moved.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Stiles repeated, over and over again as he pulled the remaining rope off Derek’s limbs. There was one around his neck, and Stiles cut it free, pulling it away while trying to see anything at all that might hinder the healing process.

He took off his jacket and put it on the floor, then rolled Derek on top. He took a sheet from a nearby table and covered him with it. There was no modesty in this situation, but he still couldn’t let Derek be seen by everyone. Not like this.

“I won’t go far, Der. I’m going to help Sonya next, okay?” he told the unconscious wolf, grimacing at the mess on Derek’s face.

Braeden would help. After she and Derek had decided they didn’t work as a couple, they’d stayed close friends. She’d worked with different groups in rehabilitating abused people, human and supernatural alike.

Stiles went to Sonya, grabbing the nearest coat and scarf where someone had left them on a table. He covered her up, then went to work removing her bindings.

“Can you stand?” he asked gently, and she nodded. “Okay then, let’s get you on the couch over there. Help should be here any minute.”

She was subdued now, her aura pulsing lightly when Stiles concentrated on it. The shock finally made her mind check out a little. She knew she was safe, had seen what Stiles had done.

He looked around at the carnage on the floor. It was bloodless, except that one guy who was bleeding from his crotch. So Stiles might’ve put some more effort on that particular energy….

Suddenly he heard a car approaching and made a shushing gesture at Sonya, not that she was really making noise in the first place.

Some cursing, and a familiar “Stiles?” made him step out of the room to face Agent McCall.

“Rafe,” he said, and gestured at the doorway behind himself. “In here.”

Still cussing, McCall walked to him, frowning at the female hunter’s body nearby. It wasn’t until he stepped inside the torture room that he went stoic again.

“This is Sonya,” Stiles said, gesturing at the she-wolf. “She’s a wolf. Alan Deaton is coming to get her and Derek.”

McCall frowned, then looked further into the room, past the bodies. “Shit,” he said, seeing Derek’s prone form on the floor.

“Yeah. I can’t…,” Stiles trailed off, and to his surprise, Rafe walked to him and placed a hand on his shoulder for a few seconds.

They weren’t friends. Couldn’t be, not with how Rafe had treated Scott and Melissa, how he’d treated Stiles when he was a kid, but they’d worked together before. Having an FBI agent in the know was useful, especially one who respected and feared what Stiles had become in the last five or so years.

“I’ll call the team in. Can you call Argent and let him know?” Rafe asked as he walked toward the half-circle of dead bodies on the floor.

“Yeah, sure. Oh, I got the last location from the bitch outside!” Stiles suddenly remembered. “Somewhere In Sheridan, Wyoming.”

“Okay, do you want to go yourself?” Rafe asked and dug out his cell to inform the couple of other agents who had helped them before.

“No, get your guys on it and have them call my usual peeps, too. I think I’ll have to stick to BH for a while.”

“Where is she from?” Rafe nodded at Sonya.

“Haven’t asked. Will do that once she’s away from here. We’ll find her people,” Stiles said, smiling at her when she struggled to concentrate on him.

“Stiles?” Alan Deaton’s voice called from the outside.

“Alan’s here,” Stiles said, lifting a hand at Rafe who had instinctively reached for his sidearm.

Stiles walked outside and had a surprisingly wide-eyed Deaton waiting for him.

“What’s all this?” he asked, pointing at the bodies outside and the runework that now glowed in Stiles’s signature color on the wall and around the door.

“This is how hunters hide their sex torture rooms, Alan,” Stiles said darkly. “I’ve been after them for months. Agent McCall is inside. Do you have anything to help Derek heal?”

Deaton lifted his bag and nodded. “I have a couple of different draughts we can try, if he’ll swallow them.”

 

In the next half an hour, they found water in bottles and cleaned Derek’s face as well as they could. Even the unflappable Deaton looked horrified. They made both Derek and Sonya drink some weird looking and smelling things, and then Stiles and Rafe carried Derek into the van Deaton had come in. Alan escorted Sonya out, and soon they were ready to leave.

“Keep me posted,” Stiles told Rafe as they stood by the car. “If you need me in Wyoming….”

“I’ll let you know. I’ll make sure the cleanup is done right,” Rafe said and went to take another call from his special team.

Stiles got into the back of the van to sit with Derek and Sonya on the way to the Hale house. She curled up to his side and together they stared at Derek, waiting for any sign of him still being there, alive, instead of just existing.

Now that the work was done, Stiles’s magic was calming down. Somehow it lasted until they were inside Beacon Hills again. Stiles peeked out of the window when he felt a tug in his magic and the ink on his hands glowed lightly.

Pack lands. They’d just crossed the outer line of Peter’s territory.

The closer they got to the Hale house, the more his magic pulsed inside him with his heartbeat.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter pushed the others out of the way as soon as they heard Deaton’s van approaching the house. He found himself outside, waiting for the car before he registered moving down the stairs. Something important was in that van. His wolf wanted to howl in relief and joy.

When Deaton parked right next to Peter, the van door opened before the druid could get out of the driver’s side.

“Peter, make some space, you’re scaring her,” Stiles said calmly, in a firm tone that wasn’t familiar to Peter.

That, more than the words themselves made him stop. He took a step back while Stiles got out, then helped a female wolf—a beta, it seemed—out after him.

“This is Sonya,” Stiles told Peter, holding the young woman under his arm. She burrowed into him, clearly agitated by the whole pack looming behind Peter. “Sonya, this is Peter Hale, the alpha of Derek’s pack.”

When the girl looked at Stiles doubtfully, Stiles laughed. “Yeah, two alphas in this pack, but Peter’s the top dog. Derek is his nephew.”

The brief laughter snapped Peter into the present. As much as he wanted to get to Derek, he needed to be the alpha in this situation more.

“You’re welcome in the Hale pack’s lands until you get better, Miss…?”

“D-danvers, Sonya Danvers,” she said and tilted her head to show her neck with the kind of respect and grace only born wolves had.

“Miss Danvers. This is Lydia,” Peter said and waited for the banshee to come closer. “She’s a banshee, and she’s the smartest person in this pack. She’ll take care of you while I talk to Stiles, okay? Nobody will hurt you on my land, and the pack will protect you as one of our own,” he promised.

Stiles murmured at Sonya quietly, despite the fact that Peter could hear the words, being as close as he was.

“Peter’s a good guy. I know all these people, Sonya. Lydia was my first crush and my second biggest heartbreak ever,” he told the girl. “I trust them with  _ my _ life. You can trust them with yours.”

“Okay,” Sonya said finally and let Lydia lead her into the house.

Second biggest heartbreak. Peter didn’t need to ask what had been the biggest. The look in Stiles’s eyes told him enough.

“Derek?” Peter asked, suddenly beyond being polite if he wasn’t shown his nephew right there and then.

“Weak, checked out mentally, not healing as well as he should,” Stiles said and opened the van door fully to reveal Derek’s battered body on some blankets and—was that Stiles’s coat?

“We need to get him inside,” Deaton said as he rounded the vehicle and put his cell away. “Braeden is almost here.”

“Good. Let’s carry him into his own bedroom. It’s on the second floor, so someone needs to help me,” Peter said, and Boyd immediately stepped in. “Actually, why don’t you and the boys carry him. He’s your alpha,” Peter amended, knowing they needed the closeness to their primary alpha and vice versa. Jesus, could the power balance have been just a little bit easier.

“Best if you bathe him first,” Stiles suggested. “He’s… well, you can smell him.”

Deaton rummaged through his bag and gave something to Isaac for the bathwater. “It should help him heal faster from… If he’s torn inside.”

That’s when Peter let himself really take in the stink surrounding his nephew. Behind him, Erica gagged, and the boys looked disgusted.

“I’ll do it, if you help me,” Boyd, Derek’s closest friend, said solemnly, and Isaac agreed to give him a hand.

Derek’s betas carried him into the house, and Peter looked at Stiles more closely.

“Thank you.” He hoped the sincerity he was feeling, the pure, overwhelming gratitude, was obvious to the… “What are you? I mean, you were just a spark and obviously now….”

“Sorcerer is the correct term. I deal with energy. Well, mostly,” Stiles said and grabbed his long jacket Boyd had dropped to the stairs when it got in the way of them carrying Derek.

He frowned and sighed.

“Sorry about your invisibility cloak,” Peter said, making him grunt and chuckle.

“Thanks. I can make another one. Pretty much everything I’m wearing is…,” Stiles started, then seemed to remember something. “Shit, I left my bike back there. Can I borrow Scotty and Ally?” He looked at Peter. “I would go get it myself, but I think Sonya would like it better if I didn’t leave yet. And I need to talk to Braeden, too.”

“Sure, if they want to help you, they’re free to do so.”

“Scotty?” Stiles called a bit louder, and soon his big puppy of a childhood friend jogged out of the house again.

“What’s up?” Scott looked at them eagerly, obviously keen to do something.

Peter had bitten him, but he’d chosen Derek as his alpha. Peter couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t been… alpha material back then.

“Could you and Ally go get my bike? I need to stay here for a while.”

“Yeah, sure. Where is it?”

Stiles dug out his cell from his pocket and started to explain something about a GPS tracker.

Deaton, who had gone inside with the others peeked out. “Peter?”

He followed the druid into the kitchen where he had some vials out.

“This all for Derek?” Peter blinked. It seemed like a lot.

“He’s not healing as fast as he should. I think they gave him something, injection maybe, poison of some sort. I saw where they had him—” Deaton looked a little bit green for a few beats.

“I know Braeden works with abuse victims. What exactly was the situation where Stiles found him?” Peter asked, carefully holding onto his anger and frustration, knowing it wouldn’t do any good if he snapped.

“I can answer that much better,” Stiles said from the doorway.

It felt like Peter’s wolf lurched on the inside of his psyche toward Stiles. It hadn’t been waiting for Derek as much as it had for Stiles, he realized.  _ Shit. _

“Nice house, by the way,” Stiles added. “Could I get coffee, please?”

To be fair, it was morning now, and Peter needed some himself. It wasn’t the caffeine, that made no difference for a wolf, but the ritual. For Stiles, on the other hand…

“Does caffeine work for you now?” Peter blurted out and then hid his face by going to the coffee maker on the counter.

“Some. ADHD has gotten better, the magic balances it out. Don’t need to live on meds anymore.” Stiles sounded tired, and Peter couldn’t blame him.

“Hey Doc, we think he’s awake enough for some of your potions,” Isaac called from the stairwell, and Deaton immediately chose two of the vials and left the kitchen swiftly.

“He’s… efficient,” Stiles murmured, drooping already.

Peter peered into the fridge and noticed a plate of sandwiches someone had made earlier. None of them had slept that night, and none of them would go to work in a few hours, either. Someone needed to start breakfast soon.

“Here, eat. You’re going to fall apart,” Peter said, pushing the plate to Stiles who had taken a seat at the island.

When Stiles reached for one before Peter could pull his hand away, the tattoos on Stiles’s hand flared up, only to dim when Peter moved away again.

The wolf within Peter whined, and Peter couldn’t help but to lock gazes with Stiles.

“I don’t know what that means,” the sorcerer admitted. “I should call a friend, ask her if she knows.”

“My wolf is…,” Peter trailed off and went to the gurgling coffee machine to pour them some. “It’s glad that you’re here.” That was the simplest way to tell the truth, right?

Peter realized he didn’t know how Stiles took his coffee now, so he added the creamer Erica preferred to the selection of condiments on the island.

“The sugar is next to the salt and pepper.” He pointed at the little jar with full moon painted on the side.

Stiles smiled. “Thanks, I’ll just take the creamer.”

Peter took his own coffee and leaned his back against the counter, watching quietly as Stiles doctored his coffee, then drank a bit and hummed. Then he dug into the sandwiches, eating in the way truly hungry people sometimes do; hesitantly at first, like they don’t feel or have ignored the hunger for too long, and then picking up speed when their body started to react to the nourishment.

Stiles was still stuffing his face when Lydia came to find them. “Leave a couple for Sonya, Stiles.”

Sheepishly, Stiles pushed the rest of the platter away from himself and swallowed what was in his mouth.

“You can eat. You might not be a growing boy anymore, but I know your magic needs energy and that means sustenance, too.” She rolled her eyes, but the gesture seemed almost gentle. It was clear she loved Stiles, an emotion she reserved to a handful people and showed to even fewer.

Lydia put together a plate for Sonya. “She’ll sleep in my room. Doesn’t want to be alone at all, Erica is there with her for the moment. I’ll watch over her, might as well since I just need to go through some data today.”

“Please take a nap at some point soon, Lydia,” Peter said quietly, and he could feel the surprise from Stiles even though he didn’t say anything.

“I’ll try. Thanks,” she said in a neutral voice, flipped her braids, and left with the food.

“She said you were talking. Almost friendly. Just… didn’t expect to actually see it,” Stiles said, his tone filled with something akin to wonder.

“Yeah. Things are different here now,” Peter admitted and sipped his coffee. Once he’d swallowed it, he continued quietly, “It’s still not easy, not with what’s essentially two packs existing on the same territory and living in the same house.”

“So, Derek?”

“There’s this hunter run sex trafficking ring of supernaturals that works all over the country,” Stiles started, and already Peter could feel his hackles rise. “I’ve been after them for almost a year, total. A lot of people have gone missing, some of those who have been found were beyond repair.”

The way he used that word creeped Peter out a little, and that wasn’t an easy feat to accomplish. But thinking about people in terms of “repairing” them from damage was just a bit much. Especially when it was his nephew that seemed to be near that state.

“And this place was one of those?”

“Yeah, they called them playrooms,” Stiles scoffed. “If it wasn’t bad enough already in other ways, I’d be so pissed off for using actual BDSM terms in this chain of torture.”

Stiles seemed passionate about defending BDSM, which intrigued Peter, but now wasn’t the time.

“From what little I saw of Derek, there was nothing safe, sane, or consensual about it,” Peter said lamely, frowning into his mug.

Stiles snorted. “No. Definitely none of those things. Anyway, I’ve moved around the country for months, taking out the cells I’ve found. Based on… interviews,”—Stiles’s eyes flashed at the word in a way that told Peter what exactly had been the nature of these interviews—“we found out enough information to always take care of the next place. This was the second to last place.”

“You found out the last location?”

“Oh yeah….” There was something utterly lethal in Stiles’s tone, and it made the pit of Peter’s stomach flutter. His wolf preened on the inside, and suddenly Peter started to understand what he’d been trying to deny for so long.

The realization led to a quiet that stretched almost too long, until Stiles decided to fill it again.

 

“Alan said the tree is quieter?” Stiles looked at him doubtfully, and Peter could understand why.

“It is, actually. Somehow both Derek and I being Alphas and being here seems to calm it. It hasn’t… the last three weeks we’ve been waiting for it to flare up again.” Peter thought it still might, with how fragile Derek seemed to be. 

“Yeah. I think I need to go and take a look,” Stiles pondered out loud. “Might as well check all your wards and shit while I’m here, too.”

“Thank you,” Peter said, feeling grateful. He was pretty sure there weren’t many people who would get through Stiles’s wards.

Something niggled at his memory then, and he could tell Stiles noticed, because suddenly he wouldn’t look at Peter.

“What’s going on?” Peter asked, ready to give the sorcerer who barely reminded him of the boy he’d let go, the benefit of the doubt.

“Uh,” Stiles grunted. He traced the rim of his mug with his index finger, then glanced at Peter from under his long lashes. “I might’ve... warded some of your territory already.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Stiles cleared his throat. “Whenever I come to see Dad. I tend to walk around the usual spots where people might try to come in. Ward them.” He made a vague gesture with one hand.

Peter stared at him in silence, until Stiles shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Stiles…,” he breathed.

“Look, I get that I should’ve asked for permission but….”

“That’s not it at all,” Peter said quickly. “I just….  _ Thank you. _ ”

It was obvious Stiles wasn’t expecting that, and he looked at Peter with his eyes wide. They flared with blue-green flames that died immediately.

“Oh.”

“We just thought it might’ve been that there are so many people around here now. A lot of pack. It’s been… relatively quiet. For a long time.”

Stiles blinked and ducked his head. His cheeks colored in a way familiar from his teen years.

“Yeah, well, it’s no big deal. I ward Dad’s place too and Melissa’s. Hell, I even did some for Chris.”

Peter knew all those people had been sworn to secrecy. However, with the past he had with one Christopher Argent, he would’ve expected to have heard of the wards from the hunter.

Something tugged at his mind, and then he heard more movement upstairs.

“Derek’s conscious,” Erica called from the stairs, and Peter rolled his eyes. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d told them to stop yelling and just come downstairs to deliver messages. Although by the way he could hear her steps rushing back to Derek’s room, he understood.

“I’ll go check up on him,” Peter said and put his now empty mug into the sink.

“I’ll call my friend. Then I think I need some rest,” Stiles murmured, digging out his cell from his pocket.

Peter decided not to think about the logistics of that rest, and instead went to check up on his nephew.

 

Of course, he’d seen some of the damage on Derek, but what he found when he got to Derek’s room shocked him to the core.

They had Derek on his stomach on the bed with a towel covering his waist. There wouldn’t normally be a reason for that; they were all comfortable around each other in the nude by now. What had been done to Derek had probably made his betas want to shield him for comfort and privacy.

Erica was sitting on the bed by Derek’s head and running her fingers through his hair. She was murmuring comfort at her alpha, and the whole room reeked of relief and grief for what had happened and that they had him back.

Isaac moved to Peter when he saw him standing by the door.

“He’s conscious, on and off. We think it’s better that way. Deaton said his betas should stay with him as he rests. For comfort.” The tall young man looked like he was holding it together, but barely.

Peter put his hand on Isaac’s shoulder and squeezed. “He’s your alpha. Let your instincts guide you. You’re smart, all of you. You can help him.”

Then he stepped around Isaac and went to the bed to really look at Derek.

Boyd came in from the attached bathroom with a tiny jar of salve of some sort. “Oh hey, do you want to…?” he held up the jar at Peter who shook his head.

“No. Your alpha, your job,” Peter said and gave the beta a tight smile.

Peter sat down next to Derek, careful not to jostle him, and brushed back the hair that had fallen to his temple. Erica’s fingers stilled, but didn’t move from Derek, and Peter respected her for that.

“Derek,” he started, then swallowed hard as he looked at the diamond pattern of wounds on his back. It seemed like they were healing some, but not at a speed they should’ve. “Stiles came and got you. You’re at home now, nephew. There was another wolf there, Sonya. Stiles saved him too and she’s here for now. Your betas are here, taking care of you, and you can relax now.”

He didn’t say Braeden was coming, too. When he looked at the betas, they all nodded in understanding. Mentioning her name would make whatever had been done to Derek more real, would remind him of it, and none of them wanted that when Derek was still unconscious most of the time.

“So because I’m your alpha, I’m making this a command,” he spoke close to Derek’s ear now, still making sure the betas heard him. “Relax. You’re safe. Let yourself heal and let us take care of you, nephew.” The whole sentence seemed to reverberate through Derek, whose eyes opened into a slit and a faint red glow shone through as he tensed. Then, with Peter’s hand on his neck, he relaxed, melting into the bed in a way he hadn’t before. “Good boy,” Peter praised him, knowing Derek’s wolf would respond to that more than anything. “Rest.”

He got up, then leaned back to kiss Derek’s temple before walking to the door. “Take care of him. Whatever you need, you just let me know. Boyd, you’re in charge of this.” Then he walked out, holding back the choked up feeling trying to crawl up his throat.

 

Peter went to the office he and Derek shared in the back of the first floor. His bedroom with the attached bathroom was next to it. He’d wanted to stay downstairs, and if his subconscious told him he was still punishing himself for the past by isolating himself during the nights, then so be it.

Right now, the downstairs was quiet, or so he thought. It spoke volumes of his state of mind when he didn’t notice Danny at his own little desk in the office corner before the human moved.

Peter startled and his eyes flashed as he whirled around.

“Whoa there, alpha mine.” Danny raised his hands and dimpled at him, but his eyes betrayed his caution.

“Sorry,” Peter murmured and went to his own desk, then sat down heavily in his chair.

“That bad?” Danny frowned.

“Worse, probably,” he admitted. “He’ll be okay, eventually.”

“I figured I would be needed more with… other stuff.  So I stayed here.” Danny gestured the walls around them, but something in his gaze had turned secretive, nervous, even.

“Danny, I swear to whatever deity is listening—”

“It’s nothing bad! I swear!” he hastened to say. “It’s just… I’m helping Agent McCall locate the last cell. He called while cleaning up the mess Stiles left behind.”

“And you failed to tell your alpha, because…?” Peter kept his tone as even as possible. He didn’t need this shit right now. Danny had his own businesses, they’d all accepted that. Teetering somewhere between a white hat and a black hat, there were things like plausible deniability that came to play.

“Because you were already upset and Derek was on his way home, okay? There’s nothing I can do here, but if I help them locating the exact spot in Wyoming….”

“Then you have helped greatly. And we thank you, Danny,” Stiles said from the doorway.

Danny beamed at Stiles and got to his feet. Peter watched as they embraced, no bro-hugs in sight.

“Good to see you in flesh, man!” Danny exclaimed as he pulled back. “Skype calls just don’t do it, you know.”

Then he realized what he’d said and turned to Peter, his eyes wide. “I mean….”

“He’s your friend. I fucked up, Danny. It’s not your fault and you shouldn’t think you can’t be friends with him just because of me,” Peter said tiredly and turned his chair to look through the window.

He could hear them murmuring, but blocked it all out. Then the door closed and Peter could feel only Stiles left in the room.

“I called my friend,” Stiles said, now closer to the desk than the doorway.

Suddenly Peter was so, so tired. All he could do is swivel his head slowly so he could see the sorcerer. “And?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” There was no accusation in Stiles’s tone, but the question hurt nonetheless.

“I didn’t… I wasn’t sure...?”

“Are you asking me or telling me, because right now, Peter Hale, you’re skating on some fucking thin ice.” And there was the anger in the flash of teal in Stiles’s gaze and the way the glass paperweight on Derek’s desk jumped an inch.

“I was afraid,” Peter says into the following silence. He tears his gaze from Stiles and looks into the garden again. “I wasn’t stable. You were too young and going away. I’d lost enough and I couldn’t deal.”

The truth in the words seemed to settle something between them, the air in the room feeling suddenly clearer. Stiles rounded the desk and came to sit on the corner of it near Peter’s chair.

He held out his hand, palm down, and Peter reached out to almost touch him. The closer their hands were, the more Stiles’s tattoos lit up. Stiles pushed back his sleeve to his elbow, and Peter could see some black feathers on his skin. They were… vibrating, it seemed.

Peter moved his hand closer in tiny increments, his wolf pushing to the front of him and making his eyes light up. He could feel the way his gums itched briefly, knowing he was going to wolf out, like the kids called it.

Suddenly he felt a zing of something on his neck and jolted back in his chair, gaze flying to Stiles’s face. The sorcerer looked mischievous as ever.

Peter dropped his hand and gaze, chuckling as he shook his head. “Should’ve seen that coming.”

Stiles hummed in agreement. Peter could tell he tilted his head and waited for something.

It took him a while. Gathering thoughts and feelings, wanting to be sure this time. No rash decisions out of fear. After a minute or two, he looked at Stiles again.

“How long are you staying?” he asked quietly.

“Unless they need me in Wyoming, I’m not going anywhere right now.”

It was vague, but it had to be enough.

“I don’t expect you to not go when someone needs you,” Peter said, looking into Stiles’s eyes. “There’s room in this house for you. If you want to stay, that is.” Then he hastened to add, “Even if it’s not with me. You’d be an asset to the pack.”

Stiles smirked, raising an eyebrow. Peter wanted to ask where the scar running over it had come from, but now wasn’t the time.

“Alpha Hale, are you asking me to be your emissary?”

“Well you’re getting older and freelancing has got to start feeling old,” Peter snarked automatically. Defense mechanism. So sue him.

Stiles threw back his head and laughed. Peter’s gaze locked into the arch of the slender neck, now tattooed with wards and….

“Is that… garlic?” he huffed out the question in a chuckle.

“Oh yeah, never lose a bet to a vampire, man.” Stiles’s eyes sparkled at him.

Peter shook his head and was about to comment when there was a knock on the office door.

“Yes?” he called out.

The door opened and Scott peeked in.

“Uh, Stiles, your bike is in the front and your bag is here.” Scott held out the bag through the half-opened door.

“Thanks. Drop it outside Peter’s bedroom, will you.”

Scott’s eyes widened, then he blushed, and nodded rapidly. “Sure, bro.”

Stiles turned back to look at Peter.

“I need a shower and a nap. Not necessarily in that order.”

Suddenly the image of a naked Stiles in his bathroom flashed through Peter’s mind. Water running down the strong, lithe body. Tattoos on display, eyes flashing teal with pleasure.

Peter made an embarrassingly choked up sound.

“I need someone to wash my back,” Stiles said, his tone so fucking knowing it made Peter feel like a teenager again.

“I think that could be arranged.”

Stiles slid off his desk, but waited for him to get up before moving away. Standing up made Peter end up in Stiles’s bubble, which seemed to be exactly what the sorcerer wanted.

“You know, consent is a big deal, but if you don’t kiss me right now, I’m gonna—”

Peter swallowed the snarky words from Stiles’s lips. He was sure he could feel a piece of ink on Stiles’s chest, right under Peter’s palm, flutter. Or maybe it was the emissary’s heart.

Inside Peter, his wolf howled with joy for finally being this close to its mate.

_ Mate. _

The word didn’t scare Peter anymore. Now, it felt thrilling.


End file.
